


there will be feasting & dancing in jerusalem next year

by talkwordytome



Series: soft lesbean ratched sickfics [3]
Category: Ratched (TV)
Genre: (kinda), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Mildred Ratched Needs a Hug, Sickfic, soft lesbians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27862146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkwordytome/pseuds/talkwordytome
Summary: When pressed, she might be willing to admit that she enjoys it; that nothing feels purer than cold water in an empty stomach. But it’s more than that and less than that, all at once. Really, she’s just tired. God, she’s tired. She can’t remember the last time she wasn’t.in which food is a struggle, and Gwendolyn helps.
Relationships: Gwendolyn Briggs/Mildred Ratched
Series: soft lesbean ratched sickfics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2024666
Comments: 22
Kudos: 90





	there will be feasting & dancing in jerusalem next year

**Author's Note:**

> So first things first: major TW for descriptions/depictions of eating disorders. If that's something that you worry will upset or distress you, please, please, _please_ be cautious if you read this fic. It's nothing especially graphic, but I do go into detail regarding how it feels to have an eating disorder, and there are descriptions of restricting as well. 
> 
> If you or someone you love has an eating disorder and you're not sure what to do, NEDA has been an invaluable resource for me https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/. Check them out if you'd like. They do wonderful work.
> 
> I know entirely too well how it feels to carry this burden, so if you want a safe space where you can talk, you're always welcome to message me on tumblr @ anneofgreengaybles. I'm obviously not a licensed therapist or medical professional, but I can listen, and I can try to help in the best ways I know how.
> 
> Rated Teen for descriptions of eating disorders and restrictive behaviors.
> 
> Title comes from the song "This Year" by The Mountain Goats.

It happens quickly and quietly, so quickly and quietly that for a while she doesn’t realize that it’s happening at all.

It’s always been that way, though, ever since she was a girl. It reminds her of the poppy field in _The Wizard of Oz_. She slips, slowly, until her feet are falling out from under her, until she is drifting away from her own body, until she is so exhausted that she thinks it would be easier to simply stay in that lonely, heavy world, instead of trying to return to herself. 

Because it is difficult work, being a person. So often what Mildred wants is to simply stop existing for a while, which she can’t say, because everyone would misunderstand. They-- _Gwendolyn_ \--would think, _Mildred Ratched wants to die_ , when that’s not what she wants, not at all. She wants the Nowhere Place. That’s all. It’s what she’s called it for as long as she can remember; that liminal space of not-quite-sleeping-and-not-quite-awake. A world that’s unfocused and dreamy; a world where she can be floating and free, yet still in control. 

She learned about Catherine of Siena in a child’s book of saints, when she couldn’t have been older than seven. How she would deny herself food for weeks and weeks, because to yield to would be a sin. How she thought starvation contributed to her miraculous visions, allowed her to be closer to God.

Mildred is not so ambitious. She doesn’t want to see anything extraordinary. All she wants, all she’s ever wanted, is to rest.

Lately she’s been good. She eats three meals a day, or tries to, even on the days her stomach turns at the thought of anything more solid than broth. She swallows past the thick lump in her throat, and later curls up close to Gwendolyn in bed, presses her stomach against the warmth that radiates off Gwendolyn and waits for the ache to pass. She knows it’s entirely psychosomatic, which only makes it worse. She despises these moments when she’s betrayed by her own body, when she cannot make it bend to her will.

It’s so much harder to be good, though, when life becomes stressful, and right now life is stressful indeed. It’s not even a _bad_ source of stress. They’ve moved, she and Gwendolyn, from Mexico to upstate New York, not terribly far from the Catskills, where Gwendolyn and her family once summered. There are rooms to paint and boxes to unpack; there’s furniture to move and phone calls to make. They have to call one repairman to fix the refrigerator when it won’t turn on, and another when the upstairs toilet won’t stop running. They fall into bed at the end of each night, exhausted, their life in bits and pieces all around them.

It starts as a missed breakfast on the fourth morning in their new home. Gwendolyn is gone, picking up nails and picture wire at the hardware store, and Mildred oversleeps. It’s nearly 9:00 by the time she wakes, and their new sofa is being delivered at 9:30. In her rush to get ready she only has time for a cup of coffee, and it’s fine, _it’s fine_. It’s a mistake. That’s all. An honest, simple mistake. She doesn’t tell Gwendolyn. She doesn’t want to worry her.

But Mildred discovers in short order that Gwendolyn, who usually minds Mildred’s well-being like a stern yet loving governess, is rather distractible when she’s busy. She doesn’t notice, for example, when Mildred pushes around her plate more than what she eats during dinner. She stops making so certain that Mildred’s diet is diversified beyond bologna and peaches. And when Mildred’s stomach is so tied in knots that she skips meals altogether, when she creates an entire litany of excuses for it-- _I ate while you were running errands, I ate while we were unpacking and you didn’t see, I’ve been snacking all afternoon and you just weren’t paying attention_ \--Gwendolyn believes her.

They’re accidents until they’re not. They’re accidents until Mildred is striking all the old bargains inside her head: _I can eat but only once I’ve unpacked the bedroom, I can eat after I’ve finished stripping the bathroom wallpaper, I can eat as soon as I am so hungry that it hurts_. Her own quiet version of Russian roulette. When pressed, she might be willing to admit that she enjoys it; that nothing feels purer than cold water in an empty stomach. But it’s more than that and less than that, all at once. Really, she’s just tired. God, she’s tired. She can’t remember the last time she wasn’t.

It all catches up to her one afternoon as they’re unpacking the kitchen. It’s only early June but it’s hot, unseasonably hot, even with all the windows thrown wide open. Beads of sweat gather on Mildred’s temples and above her lip. Her clothes cling damply to her clammy skin. The air feels viscous, too humid and heavy to breathe. Gwendolyn hums as she papers the interiors of the cabinets. Mildred leans over to pick up a box full of dishes, and suddenly the world tilts sideways on its axis. She just manages to set the box back down before she stumbles and crashes forward, hard, onto her knees.

“Mildred!”

Dark spots bloom at the edges of Mildred’s vision, and she closes her eyes against them. Starbursts of pain explode inside her temples, and nausea churns hotly in her stomach. 

“I’m fine,” she manages weakly. “Just…got dizzy. Need a moment. That’s all.”

“Behind you,” Gwendolyn says softly before placing careful hands on Mildred’s back. “Can I help you sit down at the table, sweetheart?”

Mildred shakes her head. “I don’t,” she begins, then swallows, “I don’t know if…if I can stand.”

“Would you like me to carry you?” Gwendolyn asks.

Mildred, vaguely ashamed of herself, nods.

Gwendolyn scoops Mildred up and cradles her in strong, certain arms. She gently deposits Mildred into a chair, then kisses her forehead. She palms Mildred’s cheeks and frowns.

“No fever,” she says. “Do you think you’re getting sick?”

Mildred shrugs a single shoulder. She clears her throat and fakes a bit of sniffling. “A cold, maybe,” she says. “A summer one.”

Gwendolyn squints. “You don’t _sound_ like you’re getting a cold, though,” she murmurs. 

She drums her fingers against the table and then stands. “You might be dehydrated,” she says, then walks over to the sink. She fills a tall glass with water and sets it in front of Mildred. “Drink up.”

Mildred sips slowly, carefully, trying not to gag as the liquid hits her throat. Her hands are shaking and her chest is tight. She can hear a distant roaring, like a freight train bearing down on her. The glass slips out of her grip and shatters on the floor. Her hands fly up to cover her ears at the noise.

“ _Mildred_ ,” Gwendolyn says. She sounds genuinely worried now, and is working her way towards anxious. “Darling, what’s wrong?”

Mildred’s breath stutters and hiccups. She fights off the impulse to dry heave; there’s not enough in her stomach for anything else. She can feel herself slipping away, to the Nowhere Place, and ordinarily it would be a welcome reprieve, but not now. She wants to stay here, with Gwendolyn, her Gwendolyn.

Gwendolyn seems to sense that she’s drifting. She takes Mildred’s chin in her hand. “Hi, sweets,” she whispers. “Can you tell me where we are?”

Mildred pants slightly. “Home,” she breathes, “we’re home. Our new home.”

Gwendolyn strokes her cheek. “Very good,” she says with a wobbly smile. “Where in our home?”

Gwendolyn’s voice is a balm. Mildred’s pulse begins to slow. “The kitchen,” she says. She closes her eyes. Inhales through her nose, exhales through her mouth. Repeats. “At the table.”

They sit in silence for what could be minutes or hours. In this moment there isn’t much of a difference between the two. Gwendolyn strokes her thumbs across the backs of Mildred’s hands and pets her hair. Mildred, ever so slowly, rediscovers her own corporeality. 

When Mildred is a bit more lucid, Gwendolyn fills a second glass with water and instructs Mildred to drink it. Mildred does it without complaint, and the water goes down smoother this time. She waits to see how her stomach will react, and then tries a second sip. A third. Gwendolyn looks pleased, which warms Mildred from the inside out.

When the glass is empty, Gwendolyn speaks. “Can you try and tell me about what happened?”

Mildred considers lying, but she’s hurt Gwendolyn enough for one day. She deserves the truth. She swallows and rubs her fingers, back and forth, across her clavicle. “I haven’t eaten,” Mildred admits softly, avoiding Gwendolyn’s eyes.

Gwendolyn blinks. “That’s all?” she asks, baffled and maybe even a little amused. “Honey, no wonder you feel faint. Luckily, there’s a simple solution for that--”

“No,” Mildred interrupts, shaking her head, “you don’t understand.”

Gwendolyn tilts her head to the side. “What don’t I understand?”

Mildred chews her bottom lip. “I haven’t,” she says, then stumbles, tries again. “I haven’t really eaten in…in the last few days. Maybe a week. I’ve eaten some,” she hastily amends upon Gwendolyn’s look of abject horror, “but not…not enough. I don’t think.”

Gwendolyn’s brow furrows. “But why?” she asks sadly. “Is it the pip? Or did you eat something that didn’t agree with you—?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” Mildred says. “I--it’s…difficult for me to…to explain.”

“Will you try?” Gwendolyn asks. “For me?”

Mildred takes Gwendolyn’s hand and squeezes it, hard. “I’ve never been a very good eater,” she begins, “never, not even when I was a little girl. We didn’t have much to eat, when I still lived with my mother, and I had such a nervous stomach.”

Here she falters. “That’s--it’s why I was taken from my mother, actually,” she whispers. “One of the reasons, anyway. She…they saw her--this woman who was an alcoholic, and irresponsible--and they saw me, a…a mentally unwell child with a wasting disease and I…I suppose they thought it was for the best.”

Gwendolyn reaches up and brushes something away from Mildred’s eye, and Mildred realizes it’s because she’s been crying. She reaches into her dress pocket for a handkerchief and dabs at her face and nose. “It wasn’t any better in foster homes, of course,” she continues. “In some places you were lucky if you got one meal a day, and I’d often share what I got with…with Edmond. So he wouldn’t go hungry.”

Mildred twists her handkerchief in her hands. “Your body sort of…sort of grows accustomed to going without,” she says, “and after a certain point, once I was old enough, it became an exercise in…control, I suppose.”

“Control?” Gwendolyn asks in a quiet, broken voice.

Mildred nods. “I…I would think that if I only ate a certain amount, or didn’t eat for a period of time, maybe….” she trails off. “If I could control that small part of my life, maybe the parts that I _couldn’t_ control wouldn’t matter as much.” 

She shakes her head. She must sound absurd. “It’s stupid, really,” she says, then blows her nose. “Childish.” She sighs. “Anyway, it’s a difficult habit to break, and I tend to…to fall back into it during busy times or stressful times. I’m sorry if I worried you.” 

“ _You’re_ sorry?” Gwendolyn says. “I’m the one who should be sorry, Mildred.”

Mildred stares at Gwendolyn, perplexed. “Why? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Gwendolyn’s mouth trembles. Mildred’s chest constricts at the thought of having caused Gwendolyn any unhappiness or pain. 

“Mildred,” Gwendolyn whispers, “you’ve been _starving_ yourself and I didn’t even _notice_.”

“It’s not your job to notice,” Mildred says firmly. “You’re not my mother. You’re not responsible for me; _I’m_ responsible for me.”

Fond exasperation passes over Gwendolyn’s face. “You’re impossible. Has anyone ever told you that before?”

Mildred kisses Gwendolyn’s knuckles. “You do,” she says, “and a bit more often than what’s polite, I think.”

Gwendolyn stands. She finds a pan buried in one of their boxes. She turns on a burner with a soft _whoosh_ of flames. She cracks two eggs into a bowl and whisks them, then pours them into the pan once it’s hot enough. Mildred watches attentively, fascinated by the precise flicks of Gwendolyn’s wrist as she scrambles the eggs. She cannot possibly begin to understand how Gwendolyn can make a mundane task so elegant.

Eventually, Gwendolyn sets a plate full of steaming, fluffy eggs in front of Mildred. She spears a forkful and holds it out to Mildred. Mildred eyes the fork with thinly veiled panic. Gwendolyn waits expectantly.

Mildred tries to speak but the words won’t come. She clears her throat and tries again. “I can’t,” she murmurs. “Gwendolyn, I _can’t_.”

Gwendolyn props her chin in her hand and looks at Mildred with such patience and love that some hard, cold part of Mildred begins to melt away. Gwendolyn eats the eggs herself. She raises her eyebrows. She gasps theatrically.

“My goodness,” she teases gently, “would you look at that? I’m still here.”

Mildred pouts, then giggles. Gwendolyn gets another forkful of eggs. 

“Try them,” Gwendolyn instructs. “They won’t hurt you.”

Mildred leans forward and puts the fork in her mouth. Chews. Swallows. 

“Good girl,” Gwendolyn says proudly, and there is a burst of heat deep in Mildred’s core at the praise. She fidgets, crossing and uncrossing her legs.

Mildred manages nearly three-quarters of the plate before she’s too full. “I’m sorry,” she says, “my stomach isn’t…isn’t quite ready for that much yet.”

Gwendolyn nods, understanding. She takes the plate and rinses it. Mildred listens to Gwendolyn’s soft footsteps, the quiet rush of water, the fork clinking as it meets the metal basin of the sink. Mildred loves these noises, the small instruments that make up the orchestra of the life she and Gwendolyn share.

Gwendolyn returns to the table. She takes both of Mildred’s hands in her own. “I know,” she says, “that this isn’t something to be fixed overnight. But can we try? A little bit every day?”

“I’m not sure,” Mildred whispers, “if I’ll always do it right.”

Gwendolyn cups Mildred’s cheek. “So we’ll make mistakes,” she says, “and then we’ll fix them. Together.”

“Together,” Mildred repeats. 

She turns into Gwendolyn’s hand, which is warm and soft against her skin. _Together_ , she thinks. What a wonderful, wonderful word.

“I’ll try,” Mildred says, and she means it. 

So much of being human, she thinks, is staying alive for each other. So she will give Gwendolyn this: the promise of tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. They’ll find ways to sustain each other, until they are nourished, until they never have to hunger for more.

**Author's Note:**

> Something properly HORRIFYING I discovered while researching mid-20th century eating disorders is that in the early 20th century, children and young adults who had eating disorders were often prescribed "parentectomies", which was literally being taken away from their parents, because apparently that was supposed to treat the eating disorder???? Very unsure why anyone thought that would work??? But it happening to Mildred in this fic/universe is actually likely historically accurate.
> 
> How are we? Okay? Staying warm? Need a hug after this fic? Let me know <3
> 
> I've had quite a few requests and I plan to start digging into them now that this fic has been published!


End file.
